No More Learning

Almost all the faces are however of the short, greasy, bulbous
type, and not of the long, thin, hook-nosed class. No impurity
of breed and caste has sufficed to eradicate from them the Jew-
ish characteristics.
As it is with the faces, so it is with the names,
Hebrew names have in great measure disappeared, or been inter-
The pure


## p. 14055 (#241) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14055
married with Italian surnames. These surnames are for the most
part taken from some Italian city, or borrowed from some stately
Italian house, with a pure Jewish prefix; as for instance, Isaac
Volterra, Moses Gonzaga, Jacob Ponticorvo. So also their speech
is Roman, and their accent thick and Jewish. It is seldom that
one hears them speak in their original Hebrew tongue, though
they all understand it, and employ it in their religious services.
The place and the people are in perfect keeping. The Ghetto
is the high carnival of old clothes, the May-fair of rags. It is
the great receptacle into which the common sewers of thievery
and robbery empty. If a silver salver, a gold watch, a sparkling
jewel, be missed unaccountably, it will surely run down into the
Ghetto. Your old umbrella, your cloak that was stolen from the
hall, the lace handkerchief with your initials embroidered in one
corner, your snuff-box that the Emperor of Russia presented you,
there lurk in secret holes, and turn up again after months
or years of seclusion. In this columbarium your lost inanimate
friends are buried, but not without resurrection.
Crammed together, layer above layer, like herrings in a bar-
rel, the Jews of Rome are packed into the narrow confines of
the Ghetto. Three of the modern palaces of Rome would more
than cover the whole Jewish quarter; yet within this restricted
space are crowded no less than four thousand persons. Every
inch has its occupant; every closet is tenanted. And this seems
the more extraordinary in spacious and thinly populated Rome,
where houses go a-begging for tenants, and where, in the vast
deserted halls and chambers of many a palace, the unbrushed
cobwebs of years hang from decaying walls and ceilings. With
the utmost economy of room, there is scarcely space ,enough to
secure privacy and individuality; and herded together like a huge
family, they live in their sty.
-
THE KING OF THE BEGGARS
From (Roba di Roma. Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Miffin & Co.
D'
IRECTLY above the Piazza di Spagna, and opposite to the Via
de' Condotti, rise the double towers of the Trinità de'
Monti. The ascent to them is over one hundred and
thirty-five steps, planned with considerable skill, so as to mask


## p. 14056 (#242) ##########################################

14056
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
the steepness of the Pincian, and forming the chief feature of
the Piazza. Various landings and dividing walls break up their
monotony; and a red-granite obelisk, found in the gardens of Sal-
lust, crowns the upper terrace in front of the church.
All day
long these steps are flooded with sunshine, in which, stretched
at length, or gathered in picturesque groups, models of every age
and both sexes bask away the hours when they are free from
employment in the studios. Here in a rusty old coat, and long
white beard and hair, is the «Padre Eterno”; so called from his
constantly standing as model for the First Person of the Trinity
in religious pictures. Here is the ferocious bandit, with his thick
black beard and conical hat; now off duty, and sitting with his
legs wide apart, munching in alternate bites an onion which
he holds in one hand, and a lump of bread which he holds in
the other. Here is the contadina, who spends her studio life in
praying at a shrine with upcast eyes, or lifting to the Virgin
her little sick child, or carrying a perpetual copper vase to the
fountain, or receiving imaginary bouquets at a Barmecide car-
nival. Here is the invariable pilgrim, with his scallop-shell, who
has been journeying to St. Peter's and reposing by the way near
aqueducts or broken columns so long that the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary; and who is now fast asleep on his
back, with his hat pulled over his eyes. When strangers come
along, the little ones run up and thrust out their hands for
baiocchi; and so pretty are they with their large, black, lustrous
eyes, and their quaint, gay dresses, that a new-comer always
finds something in his pocket for them. Sometimes a group of
artists passing by will pause and steadily examine one of these
models, turn him about, pose him, point out his defects and
excellences, give him a baiocco, and pass on. It is, in fact, a
models' exchange.
All this is on the lower steps, close to the Piazza di Spagna;
but as one ascends to the last platform, before reaching the
upper piazza in front of the Trinità de' Monti, a curious squat
figure, with two withered and crumpled legs, spread out at right
angles and clothed in long blue stockings, comes shuffling along
on his knees and hands, which are protected by clogs. As it
approaches, it turns suddenly up from its quadrupedal position;
takes off its hat; shows a broad, stout, legless torso, with a vigor-
ous chest and a ruddy face, as of a person who has come half-way
up from below the steps through a trap-door, and with a smile


## p. 14057 (#243) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14057
»
((
whose breadth is equaled only by the cunning which lurks
round the corners of the eyes, says, in the blandest and most
patronizing tones, with a rising inflection, “Buon giorno, signore !
Oggi fa bel tempo,” or “fa cattivo tempo," as the case may be.
This is no less a person than Beppo, King of the Beggars, and
Baron of the Scale di Spagna. He is better known to travelers
than the Belvedere Torso of Hercules at the Vatican; and has all
the advantage over that wonderful work, of having an admirable
head and a good digestion. Hans Christian Andersen has cel-
ebrated him in The Improvisatore,' and unfairly attributed to
him an infamous character and life; but this account is purely
fictitious, and is neither vero nor ben trovato. Beppo, like other
distinguished personages, is not without a history. The Romans
say of him, "Era un signore in paese suo” – “He was a gentle-
man in his own country”; and this belief is borne out by a cer-
tain courtesy and style in his bearing which would not shame
the first gentleman in the land. He was undoubtedly of a good
family in the provinces, and came to Rome while yet young to
seek his fortune. His crippled condition cut him off from any
active employment, and he adopted the profession of a mendicant
as being the most lucrative and requiring the least exertion.
Remembering Belisarius, he probably thought it not beneath his
own dignity to ask for an obolus. Should he be above doing
what a great general had done? However this may be, he cer-
tainly became a mendicant, after changing his name; and steadily
pursuing this profession for more than a quarter of a century, by
dint of his fair words, his bland smiles, and his constant «Fa
buon tempo,” and “Fa cattivo tempo,” – which, together with his
withered legs, were his sole stock in starting,- he has finally
amassed a very respectable little fortune. He is now about fifty-
five years of age; has a wife and several children; and a few
years ago, on the marriage of a daughter to a very respectable
tradesman, he was able to give her what was considered in Rome
a very respectable dowry. The other day, a friend of mine met
a tradesman of his acquaintance running up the Spanish steps.
“Where are you going in such haste ? ” he inquired.
“ To my banker. ”
your
banker ? But what banker is there above the
« To
steps ? »
)
"Only Beppo," was the grave answer. "I want sixty scudi,
and he can lend them to me without difficulty. ”
"Really? ”
(


## p. 14058 (#244) ##########################################

14058
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
»
“Of course. Come vi pare ? " said the other, as he went on
to his banker.
Beppo hires his bank — which is the upper platform of the
steps — of the government, at a small rent per annum; and woe
to any poor devil of his profession who dares to invade his
premises! Hither, every day at about noon, he comes mounted
on his donkey and accompanied by his valet, a little boy, who,
though not lame exactly, wears a couple of crutches as a sort of
livery; and as soon as twilight begins to thicken and the sun is
gone, he closes his bank (it is purely a bank of deposit), crawls
up the steps, mounts a stone post, and there majestically waits
for his valet to bring the donkey. But he no more solicits de-
posits. His day is done; his bank is closed; and from his post
he looks around, with a patronizing superiority, upon the poorer
members of his profession, - who are soliciting with small success
the various passers-by, -as a king smiles down upon his subjects.
The donkey being brought, he shuffles on to its crupper, and
makes a joyous and triumphant passage down through the streets
of the city to his home. The bland business smile is gone. The
wheedling subserviency of the day is over. The cunning eye
opens largely. He is calm, dignified, and self-possessed. He
mentions no more the state of the weather. “What's Hecuba to
him," at this free moment of his return ? It is the large style
in which all this is done that convinces me that Beppo was a
“signor in paese suo. ” He has a bank, and so had Prince Torlo-
nia and Sir Francis Baring. But what of that ? he is a gentleman
still. The robber knights and barons demanded toll of those who
passed their castles, with violence and threats, and at the bloody
point of their swords. Whoso passes Beppo's castle is prayed in
courtesy to leave a remembrance, and receives the blandest bow
and thanks in return. Shall we then say the former are nobles
and gentlemen, the other is a miserable beggar? Is it worse
to ask than to seize ? Is it meaner to thank than to threaten?
If he who is supported by the public is a beggar, our kings are
beggars, our pensions are charity. Did not the Princess Royal
hold out her hand the other day to the House of Commons ?
and does any one think the worse of her for it? We are all,
in measure, beggars; but Beppo, in the large style of kings and
robber-barons, asks for his baiocco, and like the merchant-princes,
keeps his bank. I see dukes and noble guards in shining hel-
mets, spurs, and gigantic boots, ride daily through the streets on
horseback, and hurry to their palaces; but Beppo, erectly mounted


## p. 14059 (#245) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14059
on his donkey, in his short jacket (for he disdains the tailored
skirts of a fashionable coat, though at times over his broad
shoulders a great blue cloak is grandly thrown, after the man.
ner of the ancient emperors), is far more impressive, far more
princely, as he slowly and majestically moves at nightfall towards
his august abode. The shadows close around him as he passes
along; salutations greet him from the damp shops; and darkness
at last swallows up for a time the great square torso of the
"King of the Beggars. "
Such is Beppo as he appears on the public 'change. His pri-
vate life is involved somewhat in obscurity; but glimpses have
been had of him which indicate a grand spirit of hospitality, and
condescension not unworthy of the best days of his ancestors, the
barons of the Middle Ages. Innominato, a short time since, was
passing late at night along the district of the Monti, when his
attention was attracted by an unusual noise and merry-making
in one of its mean little osterie or bettole. The door was ajar;
and peeping in, he beheld a gallant company of roisterers of the
same profession as Beppo, with porters, and gentlemen celebrated
for lifting in other ways. They were gathered round a table,
drinking merrily; and mounted in the centre of it, with his with-
ered legs crooked under him, sat Baron Beppo, the high-priest of
the festive rites. It was his banquet; and he had been strictly
Scriptural in his invitations to all classes from the street. He
was the Amphitryon who defrayed the cost of the wine, and ac-
knowledged with a smile and a cheerful word the toasts of his
guests; and when Innominato saw him, he was as glorious” as
Tam O'Shanter. He was not under the table, simply because he
was on it; and he had not lost his equilibrium, solely because
he rested upon so broad a base. Planted like an oak, his legs
figuring the roots, there he sat, while the jolly band of beggars
and rascals were “rousing the night-owl with a catch," and the
blood of the vine was freely flowing in their cups. The conver-
sation was very idiomatic and gay, if not aristocratic, and Beppo's
tongue wagged with the best. It was a most cheering spectacle.
The old barons used to sit above the salt, but Baron Beppo sat
higher yet,- or rather, he reminded one of classic days, as,
mounted there like a Bacchic Torso, he presided over the noisy
rout of Silenus,
Beppo has, however, fallen lately into disgrace. His break-
fast had perhaps disagreed with him, perhaps he had “roused
(
>


## p. 14060 (#246) ##########################################

14060
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
(
the night-owl” too late on the previous night, and perhaps his
nerves were irritated by a bad “scirocco”; but certain it is that
one unfortunate morning an English lady to whom he applied
for qualche cosa” made some jocosely intended answer, to the
effect that he was as rich as she, and alluded, it is said, to the
dowry he had given his daughter; whereupon it became suddenly
“cattivo giorno” with Beppo, and he suffered himself to threaten
her, and even, as some accounts go, to throw stones; and the
lady having reported him to the authorities, Beppo went into
forced retirement for a time. I was inade aware of this one day
by finding his bank occupied by a new figure and face. Aston-
ished at the audacity of this interloper, I stopped and said, “And
Beppo, where is he? The jolly beggar then informed me, in a
very high and rather exulting voice (I am sorry to say), begin-
ning with a sharp and prolonged eh-e-e-e-h, that the police
had laid violent hands on Beppo, because he had maltreated an
English lady, and that he ought to have known better, but
come si fa”; and that for the present he was at San Michele.
Beppo having repented, and it is to be hoped amended, during
his sojourn in that holy hospice, has now again made his appear-
ance in the world. But during his absence the government has
passed a new and salutary law, by which beggars are forbidden
publicly to practice their profession, except upon the steps of
the churches. There they may sit and extend their hand, and
ask charity from those who are going to their prayers; but they
may no longer annoy the public, and especially strangers in the
street. Beppo, therefore, keeps no more his bank on the steps
of the Piazza di Spagna; but has removed it to those of the
church of St. Agostino, where, at least for the present, he is
open to the “receipt of custom. ”
The words of the previous sentence are now, alas! no longer
true. Since they were written and printed last, Beppo has passed
away from among the living to join the great company, among
which Lazarus is not the least. Vainly the eye of the stranger
will seek him on the steps of the Piazza di Spagna, or on those
of St. Agostino. The familiar figure has gone.
The places
which have known him will know him no more; and of the large
and noble company of mendicants at Rome, there is not one left
who could fitly wear the mantle that has fallen from his shoul.
ders.


## p. 14061 (#247) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14061
SPRING IN ROME
From Roba di Roma. Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.
SI
PRING has come. The nightingales already begin to bubble
into
song
under the Ludovisi ilexes and in the Barberini
Gardens. Daisies have snowed all over the Campagna, peri-
winkles star the grass, crocuses and anemones impurple the
spaces between the rows of springing grain along the still brown
slopes. At every turn in the streets basketfuls of sweet-scented
Parma violets are offered you by little girls and boys; and at the
corner of the Condotti and Corso is a splendid show of camellias,
set into beds of double violets, and sold for a song. Now and
then one meets huge baskets filled with these delicious violets
on their way to the confectioners and caffès, where they will
be made into sirup; for the Italians are very fond of this bibita,
and prize it not only for its flavor, but for its medicinal qualities.
Violets seem to rain over the villas in spring; acres are purple
with them, and the air all around is sweet with their fragrance.
Every day scores of carriages are driving about the Borghese
grounds, which are open to the public: and hundreds of children
are running about, plucking fowers and playing on the lovely
slopes and in the shadows of the noble trees; while their parents
stroll at a distance and wait for them in the shady avenues.
There too you will see the young priests of the various semi-
naries, with their robes tucked up, playing at ball, and amusing
themselves at various sports.
If one drives out at any of
the gates he will see that spring is come. The hedges are put-
ting forth their leaves, the almond-trees are in full blossom, and
in the vineyards the contadini are setting cane-poles, and trimming
the vines to run upon them. Here and there along the slopes the
rude antique plow, dragged heavily along by great gray oxen,
turns up the rich loam, that needs only to be tickled to laugh out
in flowers and grain. Here and there, the smoke of distant bon-
fires, burning heaps of useless stubble, shows against the dreamy
purple hills like the pillar of cloud that led the Israelites. One
smells the sharp odor of these fires everywhere, and hears them
crackle in the fields:-
.
“Atque levem stipulam crepitantibus urere flammis. ”
(And stubble easily burned with crackling flames. )


## p. 14062 (#248) ##########################################

14062
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
[The following poems are copyrighted, and are reprinted by permission of
Houghton, Mifflin & Co. , publishers. )
CLEOPATRA
DEDICATED TO J. L. M.
H*
ERE, Charmian, take my bracelets,-
They bar with a purple stain
My arms; turn over my pillows, --
They are hot where I have lain;
Open the lattice wider,
A gauze on my bosom throw,
And let me inhale the odors
That over the garden blow.
I dreamed I was with my Antony,
And in his arms I lay;
Ah, me! the vision has vanished
The music has died away.
The flame and the perfume have perished,
As this spiced aromatic pastille
That wound the blue smoke of its odor
Is now but an ashy hill.
Scatter upon me rose-leaves,-
They cool me after my sleep;
And with sandal odors fan me
Till into my veins they creep;
Reach down the lute, and play me
A melancholy tune,
To rhyme with the dream that has vanished,
And the slumbering afternoon.
There, drowsing in golden sunlight,
Loiters the slow smooth Nile
Through slender papyri, that cover
The wary crocodile.
The lotus lolls on the water,
And opens its heart of gold,
And over its broad leaf-pavement
Never a ripple is rolled.
The twilight breeze is too lazy
Those feathery palms to wave,


## p. 14063 (#249) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14063
And yon little cloud is as motionless
As a stone above a grave.
Ah, me! this lifeless nature
Oppresses my heart and brain!
Oh! for a storm and thunder -
For lightning and wild fierce rain!
Fling down that lute — I hate it!
Take rather his buckler and sword,
And crash them and clash them together
Till this sleeping world is stirred.
Hark! to my Indian beauty,-
My cockatoo, creamy white,
With roses under his feathers,-
That flashes across the light.
Look! listen! as backward and forward
To his hoop of gold he clings,
How he trembles, with crest uplifted,
And shrieks as he madly swings!
O cockatoo, shriek for Antony!
Cry, “Come, my love, come home! »
Shriek, “Antony! Antony! Antony! ”
Till he hears you even in Rome.
There — leave me, and take from my chamber
That stupid little gazelle,
With its bright black eyes so meaningless,
And its silly tinkling bell!
Take him,- my nerves he vexes,
The thing without blood or brain,-
Or by the body of Isis,
I'll snap his thin neck in twain!
Leave me to gaze at the landscape
Mistily stretching away,
Where the afternoon's opaline tremors
O'er the mountains quivering play;
Till the fiercer splendor of sunset
Pours from the west its fire,
And melted, as in a crucible,
Their earthly forms expire;
And the bald blear skull of the desert
With glowing mountains is crown
wned,
That burning like molten jewels
Circle its temples round.


## p. 14064 (#250) ##########################################

14064
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
a
I will lie and dream of the past time,
Æons of thought away,
And through the jungle of memory
Loosen my fancy to play:
When, a smooth and velvety tiger,
Ribbed with yellow and black,
Supple and cushion-footed,
I wandered where never the track
Of a human creature had rustled
The silence of mighty woods,
And, fierce in a tyrannous freedom,
I knew but the law of my moods.
The elephant, trumpeting, started
When he heard my footstep near,
And the spotted giraffes fled wildly
In a yellow cloud of fear.
I sucked in the noontide splendor,
Quivering along the glade,
Or yawning, panting, and dreaming,
Basked in the tamarisk shade,
Till I heard my wild mate roaring,
As the shadows of night came on
To brood in the trees' thick branches,
And the shadow of sleep was gone;
Then I roused, and roared in answer,
And unsheathed from my cushioned feet
My curving claws, and stretched me,
And wandered my mate to greet.
We toyed in the amber moonlight,
Upon the warm flat sand,
And struck at each other our massive arms,-
How powerful he was and grand !
His yellow eyes flashed fiercely
As he crouched and gazed at me,
And his quivering tail, like a serpent,
Twitched, curving nervously.
Then like a storm he seized me,
With a wild triumphant cry,
And we met, as two clouds in heaven
When the thunders before them fly.
We grappled and struggled together,
For his love like his rage was rude;
And his teeth in the swelling folds of my neck
At times, in our play, drew blood.


## p. 14065 (#251) ##########################################

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
14065
Often another suitor -
For I was fexile and fair –
Fought for me in the moonlight,
While I lay couching there,
Till his blood was drained by the desert;
And, ruffled with triumph and power,
He licked me and lay beside me
To breathe him a vast half-hour.
Then down to the fountain we loitered,
Where the antelopes came to drink;
Like a bolt we sprang upon them,
Ere they had time to shrink;
We drank their blood and crushed them,
And tore them limb from limb,
And the hungriest lion doubted
Ere he disputed with him.
That was a life to live for!
Not this weak human life,
With its frivolous bloodless passions,
Its poor and petty strife!
Come to my arms, my hero:
The shadows of twilight grow,
And the tiger's ancient fierceness
In my veins begins to flow.
Come not cringing to sue me!
Take me with triumph and power,
As a warrior storms a fortress!
I will not shrink or cower.
Come as you came in the desert,
Ere we were women and men,
When the tiger passions were in us,
And love as you loved me then!
THE CHIFFONIER
I
AM a poor Chiffonier!
I seek what others cast away!
In refuse-heaps the world throws by,
Despised of man, my trade I ply;
And oft I rake them o'er and o'er,
And fragments broken, stained, and torn,
XXIV-880


## p. 14066 (#252) ##########################################

14066
WILLIAM WETMORE STORY
I gather up, and make my store
Of things that dogs and beggars scorn.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
You see me in the dead of night
Peering along with pick and light,
And while the world in darkness sleeps,
Waking to rake its refuse-heaps:
I scare the dogs that round them prowl,
And light amid the rubbish throw:
For precious things are hid by foul,
Where least we heed and least we know.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
No wretched and rejected pile,
No tainted mound of offal vile,
No drain or gutter I despise,
For there may lie the richest prize.
And oft amid the litter thrown,
A silver coin a golden ring -
Which holdeth still its precious stone,
Some happy chance to me may bring.
I am the poor Chiffonier!
-
These tattered rags, so soiled and frayed,
Were in a loom of wonder made,
And beautiful and free from shame
When from the master's hand they came.
The reckless world that threw them off
Now heeds them only to despise;
Yet, ah! despite its jeers and scoff,
What virtue still within them lies!
I am the poor Chiffonier!
Yes! all these shreds so spoiled and torn,
These ruined rags you pass in scorn,
This refuse by the highway tost,
I seek that they may not be lost;
And, cleansed from filth that on them lies,
And purified and purged from stain,
Renewed in beauty they shall rise
To wear a spotless form again.
I am the poor Chiffonier!


## p. 14066 (#253) ##########################################



## p. 14066 (#254) ##########################################


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## p. 14066 (#255) ##########################################

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## p. 14066 (#256) ##########################################


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## p. 14067 (#257) ##########################################

14067
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
(1811-1896)
BY GEORGE S. MERRIAM
ARRIET BEECHER Srowe shared the general conditions of
inheritance and nurture which bred the strongest group of
thinkers and authors that America has produced. It was
the peculiarity of early New England to combine an intense interest
in the supreme questions of human destiny, regarded as the basis of
the personal life, with the closest application to industrial and practi-
cal affairs. Calvinism stimulated thought on religious problems; and
austere conditions of soil and climate enforced on the sturdy English
stock the practice of industry, thrift, and shrewdness. For two cen-
turies the narrowness of the dogmatic creed, and the awfulness of its
sanctions, checked any free or original exploit of the intellect. Then
came in a great enlargement of conditions, and a fresh stimulus.
With the birth of the nation, brains and hands began to stretch out
from their provincial cradle toward continental expansion. The rise
of national questions; the impulse from Europe, stirred to its founda-
tion by the French Revolution, and giving birth to new literatures;
the outburst of the protest against Calvinism, which had been secretly
growing for generations; a new ardor in the churches for missions
and reforms; an advance in material comfort which widened oppor-
tunity and did not yet enervate,- those were among the influences
which enriched and mellowed the soil in which hardy shoots had
been growing, and out of which now flowered a brilliant little com-
pany of thinkers, poets, and story-tellers.
Mrs. Stowe was the daughter of Lyman Beecher, the foremost
orthodox minister of his time; a man of sturdy, aggressive, exuberant
nature, the father of a notable family of sons and daughters. His
biography is one of the richest portraitures of New England life in
the first half of the century. It shows how the sensitive and thought-
ful child grew up in an atmosphere of theological discussion, which
stiinulated the mind and by turns satisfied and distressed the heart,
while her observation and sense of humor found rich material. She
was largely endowed with imagination, with sensibility, with the
mystic's temper. She became the wife of a theological professor
with scanty means; and the tenderness of motherly experience was
mixed with the pressing cares of the household. By a removal to


## p. 14068 (#258) ##########################################

14068
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
the West she gained knowledge of more various society and institu-
tions, and then came back to the quiet of a Maine village, to ponder
in her heart all she had seen and heard and felt.
The interest of the North in the slave system of the South was
especially due to a little company of strenuous agitators, who were
instant in season and out of season in denouncing slavery as the sum
of all villainies. The violence of tone which generally characterized
the Abolitionists, and their readiness to denounce all men and all
institutions that did not fully agree with them, limited the influence
due to their purity and heroism. The conservatism of commerce, the
timidity of politicians, above all, the remoteness of the whole matter
from the personal knowledge of the Northern people, long restrained
the mass of the community from any very wide or active interest in
the subject. Mrs. Stowe's sympathy had been profoundly touched by
the tales of wrong and suffering that had come to her ears from
escaped slaves while she lived in Cincinnati. She had pondered the
whole question of slavery,— with a woman's heart, a poet's imagina-
tion, and a mind schooled by company with masculine and logical
thinkers. Then the political interests of the whole country were
focused upon the slavery question, by the great Congressional debate
on the Compromise measures in 1850. Conspicuous in that legislation
was the Fugitive Slave Act, making elaborate provision for the rendi-
tion of fugitive slaves from their Northern refuge. This law, and the
scenes incident to its enforcement, brought the reality of slavery
home to the Northern people closer than ever before, while it also
implicated them more directly in the support of the system. But
inertia and timidity still held back the mass of politicians, churches,
and the general community, from effective action or energetic protest.
Then this woman in her busy home in the quiet village, shedding
tears at midnight over the sorrows of slave wives and mothers, found
her imagination possessed by the scenes of a slave's story. It was
transferred to paper almost automatically. Then other scenes linked
themselves together, -scenes of pathos, of humor, of racy conversa-
tion, of dramatic action, of anguish, and of rapture. The whole story
was born and grew,- an inspiration, a creation, mysterious and beau-
tiful as the growth of a human life. It was given to the public, and
it took captive the heart of America and of the world. Its literary
success, measured by an enumeration of editions, translations, copies
sold, was vast almost beyond comparison. But it won a mightier
success; for probably beyond any other single influence, it planted in
the men and women of the North a deep and passionate hostility to
human slavery. The whole course of events moved together: the
political forces were marshaled on the question whether slavery should
be extended or restricted; new parties rose; and finally the two
principles — of the maintenance of the Union and the abolition of


## p. 14069 (#259) ##########################################

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
14069
-
war -
slavery — were established at the cost of a terrible war. It would
hardly be a figure of speech to say that the Northern army in that
or the force which made the heart of that army - had been
nurtured in boyhood and youth on Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and carried
the book in their hearts.
The book was written as a protest against an institution; and now
that the institution is gone the book remains with a deep permanent
interest. It is an intensely human story. The temporary and local
color is but the incident of a portrayal of human joys and sorrows,
sufferings and victories, which appealed to readers in far-away lands,
and can hardly fail to appeal in far-away years.
One of the most admirable and effective qualities of Uncle Tom's
Cabin' is its wholly generous and sympathetic spirit toward the
master class. The condemnation is all for the system, and for the
opportunities and incitements it affords to the baser elements which
exist in mankind at large. The master and mistress supply some of
the most charming characters of the book, as the noble Mrs. Shelby
and the fascinating St. Clare.
The key-note of the book is humanity. Its sub-title is Life
among the Lowly. It is in close accord with the great philanthropic
movement of the age. Further, it is deeply religious. Its appeal is
not to creed or authority, but to the spirit of Christ. It is the Christ-
ian faith that brings master and slave together: it is the figure of the
Crucified One that to poor Tom's darkest hour brings a peace and
strength in which he can calmly face torture and death.
It was
largely to this religious quality that the book owed its effectiveness.
It rebuked that Pharisaic Christianity which had justified slavery
with Biblical precedent, or had passed by the slave on the other side,
while absorbed in ecclesiastical trifles; while its essential piety won
multitudes of churchmen who had resented the fierce assaults of the
Abolitionists on the churches and the prevalent forms of Christianity.
(Uncle Tom's Cabin went on its way and did its work; and Mrs.
Stowe, raised to sudden fame and to easier circumstances, but no
whit spoiled or unsteadied, produced as her next serious work an-
other antislavery novel, Dred. It was less an inspiration than its
predecessor, and more a deliberate construction; and was judged to
be inferior in power. Yet it was a very strong book, both in human
interest and in effective attack upon the slave system. In logical
sequence to the simple story of the earlier book, it went on to por-
tray the treatment of slavery on its own ground by the church, the
law, and the would-be reformer. It showed how its essential evils
were supported by statute and by judicial interpretation. It pictured
the ways of the clerical politician. It depicted the attempt of a
high-minded slaveholder to elevate his servants and purify the sys-
tem, and his defeat by mob violence by statute law.


## p. 14070 (#260) ##########################################

14070
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
were trenchant attacks on the system they were aimed at. But the
more abiding charm of the book is in its lifelike picturing of men
and women; and especially in “life among the lowly. ” Best of
all, perhaps, are «Old Tiff,” a counterpart of the “Uncle Remus »
whoin the present generation knows and loves; and Milly, the slave
<<
mammy,” — the type which of all the negroes Mrs. Stowe portrays
best, and perhaps the finest type of character which slavery produced.
The Dred who gives name to the book is a negro runaway and insur-
gent, — half insane, half inspired,-- pouring upon his oppressors the
denunciations and threatenings of Hebrew prophecy. The effect
upon the reader is fantastic and unreal. But the strain of terror and
foreboding seems in the retrospect like a vague, awful prophecy of
the war-cloud which was so soon to break.
Now, in the prime of her power, Mrs. Stowe turned back to the
field which she knew best; which indeed was the very home of her
heart and experience, and which she had essayed in her first slight
sketches. (The Minister's Wooing' is a prose idyl and epic of New
England, in that phase of its history which was richest and most
attractive for the literary artist. It is a somewhat romantic and
idealized picture, for Mrs. Stowe was a poet at heart; but the ground-
lines are truthful, both the heroic and the homely figures are genuine
and unmistakable in their reality, and the book throughout is racy of
the soil from which it sprung. It gives us Yankeeland in its prime
and at its best. A later phase and a grimmer aspect are described
by Rose Terry Cooke; while Miss Wilkins's sketches are taken from
a period of dismal decadence.
But The Minister's Wooing' has its deepest interest not in its
local character, but in the working of the human heart and mind
hard beset by the problems of the universe. The motive of her anti-
slavery novels is to depict a social institution; but in this book Mrs.
Stowe has revealed from within the drama of a human soul in its
supreme exigency. It is individual and yet typical. The Calvinistic
theology – which is only an intensified form of the theology inherited
by all the Protestant churches from the Middle Ages — was brought
closely home to the lives and thoughts of the people, in a society of
which the Sunday and the sermon were the central and dominating
feature. The creed thus realized and applied bore strangely min-
gled fruit, according to the individual nature and development, - of
heroism, rapture, exasperation, or despair. In the early century,
Unitarianism broke out in open revolt; while Orthodoxy rallied to
the defense, yet at the same time modified its own theories with a
rapidity of which it was unconscious. Lyman Beecher was a fore-
most champion against the Unitarians, yet he was counted among his
brethren an innovator and sometimes a heretic. In his biography
and in the lives of his children — notably in Henry Ward and in


## p. 14071 (#261) ##########################################

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
14071
Harriet — may be traced the transformation, which without open
break has replaced a harsh by a mild religion; a change which is
world-wide, but is shown with especial clearness in the land which
the Puritan founded.
In the scanty and grim yet heroic chronicles of John Winthrop
there is occasionally a brief, terrible mention of some woman driven
by religious broodings to distraction, sometimes to murder and sui-
cide. How wide-spread the tragedy of which this was the extreme
phase, we can but surmise. It first found full articulate expression in
Mrs. Stowe, - but issuing in escape, by resource drawn from the same
creed which had crushed it. The story is that of a mother, believing
and thoughtful, whose unconverted son comes to a sudden death.
Her thought of the fate she believes he has incurred, and of the
Divine rule which decrees such a fate, and which she dares not dis-
own,- the seeming contradiction between God and right which drives
her almost to madness, — this description is as terrible as the most
lurid passage in Dante. That which at last controls and calms is the
same that sustains the slave in his extremity,– the vision of that
Savior whose very nature is love, and who is the revelation of a God
who must in some unguessed way supply the need of the creatures
he has made. Around this fiery core the story stands — like a mount-
ain with volcanic heart — in strong and graceful lines, and with rich
vesture of beauty and humor. Its heroic figure is the minister and
theologian, Dr. Hopkins: his absorption in theological speculation set
off by his self-sacrifice in espousing the unpopular antislavery cause,
and his magnanimous surrender of the woman he loves to the sailor
who had won her heart.
“The Minister's Wooing' marks the culmination of Mrs. Stowe's
writing. Of her later works, the best have their scene in New Eng-
land. (The Pearl of Orr's Island' has much of quiet beauty; and
(Oldtown Folks,' while unequal and disappointing, furnishes some
admirable scenes, and one of her raciest characters, and worthiest of
long life,- the kindly ne'er-do-weel, Sam Lawson. In Agnes of Sor-
rento' there is little creative power of character or story to match
the beauty of landscape and atmosphere. The latest stories, with
their scenes in modern American life, are slight in texture. It is
chiefly by her first three books that she will live.
Mrs. Stowe's best work was done by a sort of spontaneous inspira-
tion. She was not strong in deliberate and conscious art.
An early
letter gives a graphic description of the labor of authorship under
constant intrusion from troublesome babies and incompetent ser-
vants. One can fancy some such distracting influence as occasionally
marring her work in its details. It has not the finish of the stu-
dent who writes in the guarded privacy of the library. Yet to the
free, rough, wholesome contact with every-day life which forbade such


## p. 14072 (#262) ##########################################

14072
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
seclusion, we perhaps owe much of the fresh and homely nature in
her books, which charms us beyond mere artistic polish.
She has in a high degree the faculty of the greatest artists, of
creating as it were their characters: so that the reader recognizes and
recalls them as real people. She has a free, strong touch, not unlike
Walter Scott's. But the critic feels diffidence in assigning definite
literary rank to one who has been so closely a part of the still pres-
ent age, and thus stands in a sort of personal relation to her con-
temporaries which perhaps bars them from the judgment seat. Yet
it is hardly rash to express the opinion that measured by her best
work, Mrs. Stowe stands as distinctly first among American novel-
writers as do the others of her group in their respective fields:
Hawthorne, in pure romance; Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, Bryant,
and Holmes, in poetry. No doubt she has been surpassed in various
particulars; but judged by the test of power to win and to impress,
and looking both at the number and the quality of the audience, it
seems a moderate judgment that no American novelist has equaled
her. Safer than any attempt to assign her rank in the world's lit-
erature is a characterization of the central quality of her mind and
work. That, we may say, was the transfer of the essential spirit of
Puritanism from the field of speculative theology and mystic experi-
ence to human duty and to social institutions. The austere, heroic
spirit, which in the seventeenth century tried to build a Church-
State in America; which, baffled in that attempt, fell back with
renewed energy on universe-schemes, - that spirit has in our century
found outlet and fruition in a new passion of service to humanity,
while the conception of man's relation to God has passed from the
idea of subject and monarch to that of child and father.
lives has the change been exemplified, but in Mrs. Stowe we see it
as wrought in a woman of strong brain and tender heart. In many
respects she is a feminine counterpart of Whittier; he of Quaker, she
of Puritan lineage; both serving in the antislavery cause; both pass-
ing on to a more personal interpretation of life; and both sublimat-
ing a dogmatic Christianity into a simple religion of love and trust,
in which Christ is still the central figure, but a Christ of the heart
and not of the creed.
Such comparison may contribute a little toward an appreciation of
this large-natured woman and fine genius. But she is to be really
known through her books, in which she expressed her best self.
In many
Geace
lorian


## p. 14073 (#263) ##########################################

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
14073
AND
BIOGRAPHICAL
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL Note. Harriet Elizabeth
Beecher was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, June 14th, 1811. When
thirteen years of age she went to Hartford, Connecticut, to attend the
school of her sister Catherine. After studying for some years she
assisted as a teacher in that institution. In 1832 the Beecher family
moved to Cincinnati, Ohio; and four years later Harriet was married
to Professor Calvin E. Stowe, of the Lane Theological Seminary in
that city.
Her first book was "The Mayflower, or Sketches of the Descend-
ants of the Pilgrims, published in 1849. The next year the Stowes
went to Brunswick, Maine, Professor Stowe having taken a chair in
Bowdoin College. Uncle Tom's Cabin,' which was written at Bruns-
wick, began to run as a serial in the Washington National Era in
1851, and appeared in book forin in 1852. Its success was immediate
and phenomenal, half a million copies being printed within ten years,
and the translations into foreign tongues numbering about thirty.
In the same year (1852) Professor Stowe was called to Andover
Theological Seminary at Andover, Massachusetts. In 1853 the author
published a 'Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin, giving facts to substantiate
her slave story.
She made at this time the first of several European
trips, during which she was received abroad with marked respect and
honor. In 1864 the Stowes removed to Hartford, Connecticut, where
Mrs. Stowe resided until her death, July 1st, 1896. For a long term
of years she spent the summer months at her home in Florida.
Of the many editions of Mrs. Stowe's works, it is sufficient to
direct the reader to the final, authoritative, and complete Riverside
edition, 1896, issued by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. of Boston, in sixteen
volumes, with a biographical sketch, notes, portraits, and views. The
titles of the books, as they appear in this edition, are as follows:
Uncle Tom's Cabin' and the Key' (two volumes), “Dred and Other
Anti-Slavery Tales and Papers) (two volumes), «The Minister's Woo-
ing, “The Pearl of Orr's Island, Agnes of Sorrento,' (Household
Papers and Stories,' My Wife and I, Oldtown Folks' and (Sam
Lawson's Fireside Stories (two volumes), Poganuc Peopleand 'Pink
and White Tyranny,' We and Our Neighbors,' Stories, Sketches,
and Studies,' Religious Studies,' Sketches and Poems,' (Stories and
Sketches for the Young. A full sympathetic account of Mrs. Stowe
will be found in her Life,' written by her son, the Rev. Charles E.
Stowe, which Houghton, Mifflin & Co. also publish.
>


## p. 14074 (#264) ##########################################

14074
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE
HOW SAM AND ANDY HELPED HALEY TO PURSUE ELIZA
From (Uncle Tom's Cabin
NY
EVER did fall of any prime minister at court occasion wider
surges of sensation than the report of Tom's fate among
his compeers on the place. It was the topic in every
mouth, everywhere; and nothing was done in the house or in
the field but to discuss its probable results. Eliza's flight - an
-
unprecedented event on the place --- was also a great accessory in
stimulating the general excitement.
Black Sam, as he was commonly called, from his being about
three shades blacker than any other son of ebony on the place,
was revolving the matter profoundly in all its phases and bear-
ings, with a comprehensiveness of vision and a strict lookout to
his own personal well-being, that would have done credit to any
white patriot in Washington.
“It's an ill wind dat blows nowhar,— dat are a fact,” said
Sam sententiously, giving an additional hoist to his pantaloons,
and adroitly substituting a long nail in place of a missing sus-
pender button, with which effort of mechanical genius he seemed
highly delighted.
« Yes: it's an ill wind blows nowhar," he repeated. Now,
dar, Tom's down; — wal, course der's room for some nigger to
be up- and why not dis nigger ? dat’s de idee. Tom, a-ridin'
round de country, boots blacked, pass in his pocket, all grand as
Cuffee,- who but he ? Now, why shouldn't Sam ? dat's what I
want to know. ”
“Halloo, Sam! O Sam! Mas'r wants you to cotch Bill and
Jerry,” said Andy, cutting short Sam's soliloquy.
Hi! what's afoot now, young un? ”
“Why, you don't know, I s'pose, dat Lizy's cut stick and
clar'd out with her young-un ?